


FFXIV 2020 Kinktober Challenges

by raccaffiend



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Biting, Bondage, Corsetry, Dirty Talk, F/M, Hand Holding/Head Pats, Kinktober, Kinktober 2020, M/M, Marking, Masturbation, Multi, Sensory Deprivation, Sex Toys, Shibari, Stockings, Swimsuits
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:35:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26789803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raccaffiend/pseuds/raccaffiend
Summary: Kinktober fills for 2020, as inspired in part by Emet-Selch's Wholesomely Debauched and Enabling Book Club.
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Estinien Wyrmblood, Aymeric de Borel/Haurchefant Greystone, Aymeric de Borel/Haurchefant Greystone/Estinien Wyrmblood, Aymeric de Borel/Haurchefant Greystone/Warrior of Light, Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light, Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light/Estinien Wyrmblood, Haurchefant Greystone/Estinien Wyrmblood, Haurchefant Greystone/Warrior of Light, Haurchefant Greystone/Warrior of Light/Estinien Wyrmblood
Comments: 11
Kudos: 55





	1. Dirty Talk

Aymeric, as the Lord Speaker of Ishgard, was obligated to attend the Autumn festivities. The interminable droning of some of the high heads of house at the dinner table he was bound to was beginning to grate, knowing that Estinien and Cen, having opted out of attendance, were most likely up to no good.

No good that he would dearly like to be participating in. The food, at least, was passable, and he was able to follow the conversation, although he wasn’t in any particular mood to contribute.

The second course was being served when he heard the linkpearl come to life in his ear and Estinien’s voice filter through it, echoing through him.

“Fury, woman, get your tongue out of my ear!” he yelped, and Aymeric heard shuffling, likely Estinien’s finger.

“Where would you prefer my tongue visit?” Cen. Aymeric inhaled sharply, covering it with a small cough. Estinien went quiet, and Aymeric’s stomach dropped through the floor, realizing that Cen had called out on the linkpearl without knowing she did so. But Estinien now knew. Aymeric could practically hear his slow grin spreading across his face.

“My mouth, preferably, Sprite,” he answered. Cen’s sultry groan cut through him a moment later and the temperature raised a handful of degrees. “Mm, such sharp teeth you have. You cannot kiss without biting; a habit that you no doubt picked up from that utter beast Aymeric.”

“I’m not sure that’s a complaint, Ser Dragoon,” Cen replied. Shuffling and a sharp gasp from Estinien. “Your ears are delectable, and I must have my fill of them.”

“You’ll have your fill of other parts of me soon enough,” he bit out, and sighed. “Gods and bells, your mouth is like fire. Give me your teeth again,” Estinien said.

The bone-deep groan that Estinien issued next had Aymeric dropping his soup spoon from numb fingers into the bowl, rattling the porcelain uncomfortably and splashing droplets of bouillabaisse onto the tablecloth. He could feel his cheeks pinking as he took a deep breath and shook his head, making light of the faux paux. Estinien’s deep chuckle, as amused as he’d ever heard him, filtered through to his ears.

A yelp issued, followed swiftly by a sharp clap and Cen’s giggles. She only laughed like that when swift fingers found the sensitive hollow between groin and hip. He knew he was right when her giggles dissolved into a weak, punched out “ah!” Estinien had applied his lips where previously his fingers had been. A stutter of breath told him that one of Estinien’s hands had shifted up to capture a breast, and was, in all likelihood, thumbing across a nipple, circling it slowly as was his tendency.

“I would hear you, Sprite. Tell me like you would describe it to Aymeric were he here,” Estinien bade. The utter ass. The utter sodding ass. Aymeric was silently making plans to strangle the life out Estinien with his own stupidly luxurious hair, have him raised, and then choke the breath from the dragoon again with the traitorous cock in his smalls which was now throbbing and pleading for him to leave this shipwreck of a festival.

Aymeric gritted out an assurance to the Lordling at his side that he was _fine, thank you_. He would be better when he visited violence upon a certain Elezen who was currently in residence at Borel Manor.

Cennova’s voice refocused him when she began, and he heard the gasps and tremors in her words. “Stars, how your hands feel on me, Estinien. The rough parts scratch, but — aah, yes,” she hissed, and he knew that Estinien had found her center with long dexterous digits. He thought he could just barely make out the sound of fingertips stroking through slick. “The longer you play with me, the softer your fingers become,” Cen said.

“Wet enough to drown in,” Estinien murmured, and then Cennova’s long wail snapped his spine straight. His senses were attuned to the soft wet sounds of Estinien’s fingers parting her and plunging deep. His measured breaths and obscene sucking noises echoed throughout Aymeric’s ears, and he lost all track of the conversation happening around him. “Words, my Sprite. Use your words.”

“Twelve, don’t you dare stop, you demon,” she hissed, her voice cracking. “I don’t want to see your face again until it’s covered in my slick,” Cen demanded.

“As my lady demands,” Estinien chuckled, then went to work. For long torturous moments, Aymeric was drowning along with Estinien, trying in vain not to shift in his seat for fear he would give himself away, but still unwilling to disconnect the linkpearl. All he had to do was surreptitiously toggle it off.

“Your mouth is sin, Estinien,” she breathed. “My mind leaves me when you — aah, yes, like that. Harder. You should live there. The only lance you’ll ever need again is between your thighs. The only thing that would make this better would be Aymeric behind you, holding you by the hair as you lost your mind to him.”

Estinien’s low pitched and muffled voice came to his ears, barely able to be heard over Cen’s words, gasped and sighed out, and sweet cries of Estinien’s name. “Oh, Aymeric, you should be seeing what I’m seeing. Malms and malms of skin under my hands and my face buried so deep in her cunt that she’s all I can see, taste, smell. I daresay my meal is more satisfying than yours, Lord Speaker.”

Cen cried out suddenly, and he heard them shifting. A pitched huff of breath from Cen and a soft groan. He heard the small percussive noises of Estinien thrusting his fingers into his lover for long, long moments.

The third course of the meal arrived and he did not notice.

Cen fair shrieked, and he could see the scene in his mind’s eye. Estinien had hooked fingers deep within her and her entire body was shifting back and forth with his unrelenting thrusts. “More,” she demanded, and he complied.

“More, you ask?” Estinien said, and Aymeric heard his pace increase. “Harder? Deeper? More fingers? Shall I hook you deep and lift you from the bed like this?”

“Sodding hells, Estinien,” she cried, voice pitched high and frantic, and Aymeric knew he had lost this fight. “Yes! All of it!” A harsh gasp and a cry that seemed to last for ages.

“What would Aymeric say if he were to see you like this? Desperate and positively gagging for it. You’re hanging from four fingers and still you want more. I think this would be the straw that breaks him, Cennova. He would shed the civilized veneer from himself and fall upon you like the beast he is beneath. I daresay he would no sooner come through the door before his clothes and mask would be discarded and he would devour you after stuffing you to past the brim with the monstrous hungry creature he hides away in his trousers that you still can’t entirely take. If he were to see you like this, Cen, he would fuck you raw until this sweet cunt swallows every ilm.”

A fractured cry from Cennova and her pitch was rising, breath coming faster. Estinien was sounding breathless himself. “I may be more than just part dragon these days, my Sprite, but Aymeric is the entire brood when awakened.”

All Aymeric could hear was the blood rushing and pounding in his own ears as he rose from the table at Cennova’s cry of completion and her near-panicked cries as Estinien sunk into her and the harsh packing sound of Estinien _fucking_ Wyrmblood moved within their lover, driving her past her limits.

Aymeric was aflame as he strode out of the festival. Once he was alone on the street, making his way back with all possible haste, he finally spoke. “I do hope you don’t plan on traveling any time soon, Ser Dragoon, because I am going to split you so far open that the chiurgeon you will need when I am done with you will likely mistake your arsehole for an archway in the Vault.”

“I look forward to it.”


	2. October 2: Stockings

Aymeric’s mind was elsewhere as he finished straightening his cravat, inspecting himself in the mirror. Every bit the Ishgardian politician, he thought only somewhat sourly. The banquet for his appointment as Lord Speaker was this evening, and they would have to leave in good time.

His attention was drawn by a muffled thump and a sharp curse from the room adjoining his own. Blinking and curious, he cracked the door open.

“Cen? Is aught amiss?” A grumbled response, and a strained noise. Aymeric peeked in fully and found Cen akimbo, upside-down under a landslide of bed linens.

He was at her side in an instant, digging her out of the sheets and blankets and pillows in which she was embedded. His eyebrows shot skyward as he managed to unearth her, finding her clothed in only a thin underblouse, a boned corset with ribbons for garter straps, and a single black lace silk stocking clinging desperately to her upper thigh and held there by the corset straps. The corset she bore did not cover her breasts, but instead merely lifted them toward her neck. Toppled as she was, they spilled like water out of the half-cups, baring rosy tips to his ravenous eyes. 

His throat went dry when he followed the long line of her leg to the crease at her bare sex, fair kissed by the frills at the top of the stocking.

“Stockings and boots _before_ corset,” she reminded herself scathingly as he helped her up to sit on the denuded bed. “I have still yet to get the hang of the Ishgardian process of dressing oneself.”

“May that you never will,” Aymeric said, gathering the stocking and arranging it to bunch on his thumbs. “Hold my shoulders. Lift your leg and point your toes down.”

“My, Aymeric, have you done this before?” Cen asked, breathless as the backs of his knuckles grazed their way up her calf. The look he sent her was smoldering.

Slowly, he worked the silk up, eyes devouring the sight as the lace allowed her creamy skin to peek through the black framed windows, teasing. She trembled as his breath ghosted against her knee, and her flesh developed goose pimples when he reached mid-thigh. The knuckle of his thumb brushed her sex when he reached the apex, settling the stocking there and clipping it to her garter belts trailing from the corset.

Aymeric remained on bent knee, running wide, hot hands up her leg, feeling the soft rumble of the meager black fabric beneath his palms. His elegant fingers curled around the back, his thumbs settling at the hollow of her hips.

Cen recognized the look in his eyes, the embers there starting to kindle and turn skyfire dark and blown. “’Meric,” Cen started, smoothing his starling black hair from those eyes, careful not to muss his work.

“Fury, what deeds you inspire me to,” he breathed. “You have me cursing my appointment. My appointment which secures all that I have striven for in memory. Yet my heart is bellowing at me to cover you in myself, to burrow my way under your skin and into your flesh, and never to part.”

She leaned over him stiffly, as the corset would allow naught else, the boning biting into her ribs, and curled herself around his neck and face, pressing her lips to the crown of his feather-soft hair.

“I daresay there will be suitors in attendance vying for your attentions tonight,” he said mildly, though his countenance spoke otherwise. “Would you have me, as a consolation and a promise for the hereafter, my love? I would have you feel the ghost of my attentions whenever you shift and make platitudes toward any who would have even a portion of your attention this evening.”

“I can think of no better way to remind myself of what awaits when we return,” she breathed. “I shall share the tale with dear Estinien when he arrives as well.”

She found herself without breath as his clever mouth and sharp teeth descended upon her. Moments later, she was on her belly, reaching for anything she could to hold on as Aymeric breached her from behind, forcing a yelp. He moved forward without waiting, not letting her get used to compressed length throbbing within her before spitting her completely. His fingers tangled in the corset’s ties and the breath was forced out of her in a puff as she was pulled sharply back onto the cock within and _held her there_.

Gods, but he was _broad_ , splitting her to the quick and butting up against her cervix. It was all she could to to breathe past the stretch. She reeled from the pressure as he pushed slowly, inexorably, relentlessly and solidly down into her, yowling with the last of her breath when he leaned in, letting his superior weight drive himself harder, stretching her, pressing her into the edge of the bed.

She panted there for a moment, waves flooding through her in time with her heartbeat, pinioned like a butterfly on display until she felt something loosen, relax, and she found herself swallowing the last ilm of him within her. 

“Oh,” she breathed out, amazed. The sound he made was unholy as he reveled briefly. She felt him flex and slip back out slightly, realigning himself and pressing hard down toward her belly, tearing a groan and a bone-deep shudder from her when he bottomed out, the points of his still-clothed hips pressing into her ass. Aymeric wasted no further time in setting a brutal pace that Cen knew she would feel for far longer than just this evening.

Aymeric drew her back and forth in time, holding her aloft by the strings of the corset so that her stockinged toes would only occasionally brush the plush carpet. She had no purchase, she had no leverage, and she clawed at the bedsheets beneath her in frustration as the coil of fire started to spread from her abdomen.

His hips battered her plush ass, and she was sure he was aiming to bruise. She was looking forward to trying to sit still tonight.

“You’re like a vice around my flesh,” he breathed, somehow still able to form words as he manhandled her as if she weighed nothing. “I can feel you tighten when I pull the corset strings.” His grip switched and he slid a hand beneath her to press against her belly while he thrust and groaned deeply. “Fury, Cen, I can feel myself pushing at my own hand through the damned corset.”

She had no words, no breath left to answer him with as levin struck her, lighting her up from within. She went blind, coming untouched, issuing a silent scream as she locked up and froze for long moments. Aymeric shouted as she pulled him with, her grip tight enough on his cock to stop his movements entirely.

Sparkling blackness limned her vision as she was settled back onto the bed, the corset strings being loosened so she could breathe more easily. Cen twitched as she felt a soft cloth cleaning his spend from between her legs. How long had she been laying here? She couldn’t feel her toes, flexing them against the silken fabric to make sure they hadn’t fallen off.

The red imprint of her lace stockings painted across Aymeric’s milky thighs was the sight that greeted her when she was again able to focus. His trousers were yet undone and partially pushed down, flesh still not quiet quiescent where it rested. Her face split in a punch-drunk grin.

“Next time we do this, you’re wearing the stockings and corset,” Cen declared. Aymeric’s surprised laugh echoed down the empty hallway beyond the room.


	3. October 3: Swimsuits

Aymeric was quietly sweating out his dignity in his Ishgardian armor in the rays of Costa del Sol while Cen browsed a shop wearing a flowing black and teal sarouel, a matching teal top that wrapped over her breasts and tied at the shoulder, and a pair of sandals that wrapped up her ankles. He’d briefly attempted to stop her wearing the outfit in public, but the look she’d given him had quashed any further attempts to convince her otherwise. Estinien had smirked and applied more lotion to his bare shoulders and remained in the breezy shared bungalow above the water with a novel while they shopped to make up for Aymeric’s poor choice in packed clothes.

“The clothing I brought is sufficient,” he complained. She sighed, looking up over her shoulder at him. The fringe at his forehead was damp and beginning to clump. The pinkness in his cheeks was not yet from sunburn, though it soon would be if he didn’t take the precautions that Estinien was taking.

“Aymeric, the mantle of Lord Speaker can be set aside for the handful of days that we have here. Your linkpearl is active and you are reachable for emergencies. Lucia is in charge in your stead.”

He looked abashed, issuing a sigh. She caught his hands in her own, squeezing gently. “I plan on enjoying this trip. Whether or not you do as well is entirely in your,” another firm grip, “imminently capable hands. But one way or the other, I am purchasing you garments appropriate for hot weather, which this magnificent House Borel gear is most certainly not. I will not have you passing out from heatstroke on the beach. Now, hush and let me play dress-up with the loveliest clothes horse that I have ever seen.”

He nearly had a fit when Cen finally discarded the sarouel in favor of teal and black swimming briefs, and found himself choking on the neon blended drink that he had been sipping under a large parasol that they shared on the white sands some time later.

Estinien gave precisely zero fucks, his dark eyes dragging over her sunlit skin as he grinned while Aymeric sputtered.

“You’d think that you had never seen her skin, Borel,” Estinien snarked mildly. He was gifted a look that could have soured milk.

“I may have, but I am unused to seeing her bare in the eye of the public.”

“She is hardly bare,” the dragoon replied, idly scratching at a patch of scales along his side left by the dead dread wyrm’s occupation of his body and mind. “The public will thank her for the privilege.”

“Indeed. They will thank me for the privilege of bearing witness to the lovely flesh of the two delectable creatures that I have convinced to accompany me into this paradise.”

Estinien snorted indelicately, and the afternoon was spent alternately lounging and splashing in the surf.

The evening found the three of them still on the beach, mildly sunburned, enjoying the company and the ocean breeze as the sun dipped below the horizon. Bonfires were beginning to be kindled down the beach, and drummers and dancers were performing in the shallow surf.

Estinien lounged in black fitted shorts with latticework on the sides of the legs. Cen had managed to wrangle the Lord Speaker into board shorts in his preferred shade of blue, but he was still grousing about the shirt that Cen would not hear of him wearing.

“On that note, gentlemen,” she began, rising from her towel, silhouetted to their eyes. “I am going swimming one final time for this evening before heading over to the canopies in search of food and drink. Would either of you care to join me?”

There were grumbles from both of her men, and she smirked. “Would now be a good time to mention that I can breathe underwater?” Cen asked, an eyebrow quirked, then turned and ran as fast as she could into the surf, laughing loudly as she went.

It took them a moment to process, but when the statement and its implications fully sank in, they looked at each other. “Did she just…?” Aymeric trailed off, eyes wide.

“She wants dinner and a drink, does she?” Estinien replied, sounding like Starlight had come early.

They were up like a shot and skittering in the sand as they gave chase.


	4. October 4: Hand Holding

Ishgard was as welcoming as it ever was, which is to say, it wasn’t. Cen had come to welcome it anyway, viewing it more and more as home, if only for the people who lived here.

Haurchefant flanked her as they ascended the steps from the Foundation, having met her at the gates of the Steps of Faith with a grin brighter than the midday’s sunlight. “Well met, my lady warrior,” he said easily, falling into step just behind her to the side as they walked. “How was your journey?”

“Well enough,” she answered, glancing back and up at him. His arms were clasped behind his head as he strolled and there was an placid look on his face, but it seemed somewhat forced. “Nothing that I couldn’t handle.”

He chuckled. “That encompasses everything from Eikons to milk runs.”

“Some days, I wish you weren’t so correct,” Cen groused. “Are you well?” she asked after a moment.

“Yes, of course,” he replied, somewhat startled. “Why do you ask?”

“I cannot help but notice that you are different when you are within these walls than you are at Dragonhead.”

He smiled, looking down, and his silver fringe fell over his eyes. “I know my place here. Ishgard has made sure of it.”

“Your place, Haurchefant, is at my side; not behind me.” He obediently stepped in line with her, looking discomfited.

“Ishgard would disagree, my lady.” She sighed. “Although I bear the title of a Knight of House Fortemps, I am still my father’s bastard. A Graystone. Ishgard has very little remorse for those who rise above their station. It is, in fact, the reason that I am not commander of any garrison within her walls.”

“My darling, I am a hedge witch with horns who has stripped for her supper and swived for a night's sleep in a bed,” she said mildly. His eyes went wide and he looked around before he could help himself, concerned for her reputation even now. I cannot be shamed with that which I am and that which made me. I care not for my own reputation beyond how it will affect those around me, Ser Aymeric in particular. Though, I daresay he has his hands more full with the Azure Dragoon’s keeping than he ever will with my own.”

Haurchefant issued a small laugh. “You may be correct on that matter. But this reputation you have built will be impacted by publicly associating with me.”

“In that case,” she began, her eyes flinty. “I care not at all for Ishgard and her opinions.” Her small hand, cold from the walk, defiantly slipped against his palm and curled there. He startled and nearly pulled away, looking at her in surprise.

“Cen?” his voice, when it came, was small and unsure; very much unlike the man she had come to know.

“I will not deny you, Haurchefant. Anyone demanding that I do can go hang.” Her fingers twined through his, holding tight and filching his warmth. Gods, how was he always so warm? Ishgardians were, she was once told, a hardy lot. 

“I’ve told you before, love. Of all my endeavors, I am more proud to be at your side and in your arms.”

She was summarily swept up into his arms around a convenient corner and finally, finally, given a proper welcome home when Haurchefant’s lips claimed her own.


	5. October 5: Masturbation

Aymeric felt like he was slowly losing his mind. When he got word that a scion had fallen at Ghimlyt, he cut through everything in his patch like a berserker. Naegling was stained with blood and ceruleum when he arrived only to see Alisaie in Cen’s arms, and Cen distraught. He had thought the worst.

When word arrived that Cen had been lost in the Syrcus Trench, well, distraught would not cover it. Her body, her physical being, was gone. Tataru had contacted him personally to explain precisely what happened, but that was of little comfort, knowing that Cen was gone from where he could reach her.

Estinien, upon hearing the news, took it upon himself to go to work for the remainder of the scions with The Black Wolf, Gaius van Baelsar, of all people. He privately gave it three weeks before they were in bed with one another. Bedroll. Parapet. Whatever.

Estinien had said that he would be holding the fort until Cen returned, and Aymeric did not mention the pain he plainly tried to conceal, choosing to bury it in duty.

He still had regular callers to defend against, the noble women of Ishgard re-setting their sights on the Lord Speaker. He entertained them to the point of propriety, but never beyond.

Aymeric supposed he understood Estinien, buried as he was in his own work with Ishgard. Lucia had practically chased him out of his office again at the sunset. He had no doubt that she wanted to take her own leave as well, and if she did not purge the offices of him, she would find him once again asleep at his desk come morning.

Not wanting to face the emptiness and silence of Borel Manor at night after the manor caretakers had retired to their own homes, he spent an extra hour at the Forgotten Knight staring into a mug of mulled wine after he had eaten. Even this place was saturated in memories of Haurchefant, and one memory, particularly cherished, of Cen.

He hadn’t known it was her at the time. Some who lived through the calamity had gained unexplained memories of a person that they could have been but were not, and none could explain it. Memories had overlaid memories.

The whole situation was unsettling. Unnerving. And, more pointedly, more lonely now that he found himself without Haurchefant, without Cen, without Estinien.

He let himself in the Manor, smiling at the lamps left lit by his staff. He knew they worried about him. Perhaps he ought to be better about the situation.

Cen would be back, according to Tataru, though he did not know how she knew. Or if she knew at all. Perhaps it was wishful thinking. But the lack of a body, even one still living as the Scions were, gave him cause to hope.

The sleek black cat that Estinien had brought and subsequently abandoned without asking Aymeric’s opinion on the matter sauntered up to him and curled around his ankles, probably trying to end his life. When Cen took to the beast, he was summarily overridden; Estinien had a soft spot for foundlings that he failed to conceal regularly.

“Good evening, Mistress,” he greeted the cat, who regarded him with pale yellow eyes. He had tried in vain to convince his lovers against the name. It was only later revealed that Mistress was in possession of male anatomy. The name still stuck, and he was resigned once more.

The boots and greaves and were left in the closet, the sweep of blue following it swiftly onto a hanger. He tore at more layers, suddenly wanting them gone, stopping when he was in shirtsleeves, fitted under trousers, and barefoot. The discarded clothing was unceremoniously bundled and tossed in a laundry chute spanning the height of the house around the corner from the landing hallway.

The kitchen tile was frigid against his feet, but he bore it stoically, proceeding to fill Mistress’ bowl with a cut of fowl from the icebox and refresh his water. The beast, who had followed him in, looked at the dish disdainfully, then lifted a leg and proceeded to lick himself.

“Enjoy your repast,” he commented dryly to the feline who was completely ignoring him, and would probably destroy antique upholstery later in the evening precisely thirteen minutes after he fell asleep. Mistress was very much like Estinien some days.

Weariness hit him as he traversed the stairs to the bath. Perhaps he would make an early night of it, he thought, letting his mind wander as he wetted and soaped a soft cloth and set about his evening hygiene.

The bath was there, conspicuous, in the mirror. He could not look at it without remembering a spill of gold over its basin edge, pale skin and freckles trailing down into steaming water. A soft and inviting smile. How he’d overflowed the tub when he pressed in against heated softness to share her bath.

The water was cool against his face as he finished rinsing, trying to set his mind away from its imaginings, but knowing it was already too late.

Ablutions complete, he made his way to his bedroom, having snapped up the washcloth he’d used previously. The hearth, burning low, was quickly and efficiently stoked for the remainder of the night.

He debated but a moment before tossing an extra bit of fuel on, then stretching to tug his shirt off. His hands slid down when it was tossed away, fingertips alight against his own skin as he pushed his trousers and smalls off and kicking them away to reside with his shirt.

The blankets of softest down and plush velvets were pushed away and he slid down to be embraced by the mattress, silken sheets warming to the touch of his skin as it whispered by. Pillows were propped up against his back, fluffing out on both sides of him, and he sighed, pressing his head back into them.

Aymeric let his hands wander, resigning himself and giving himself permission to enjoy this.

His eyes slid closed as his hands began to wander, the burn of his own skin under his fingertips and palms as he slowly moved across and up his chest, spreading his fingers wide and pressing down as he exhaled slowly. The ridge of his collarbone caught his fingers as he followed the contour, his thumb resting at the hollow of his graceful throat before moving up. He lightly circled his neck, feeling himself swallow, the bob of his Adam’s apple familiar yet somehow entrancing.

The long fingers of his right hand traveled up, skirting over his plush lips, tracing the contour and Cupid’s bow. His tongue flicked out to lick the pad of his index finger slowly, tasting, before pressing it between sharp teeth and biting it lightly and holding it there for long moments as his left hand explored lower.

The other hand was preoccupied with gently circling the paps of his nipples, running fingernails across the points. Index finger and thumb came together, swiftly pinching until he made himself twist and moan against the finger he held in his teeth. The same treatment was repeated on the other nipple when he released his fingertip. The freed hand went to his ear, capturing it and tugging it lightly, making himself shiver at the feeling.

When he felt his breath begin to come deeper and faster, the hand at his breast swept slowly down, skipping and skating, trailing the plates of his nails past his ribcage to his belly, tracing the ridges and indents there, following the line of his diaphragm as he breathed, feeling his belly rise and fall in time with his breathing.

His ear was abandoned, grip transferring as he ran his hand through his hair, pushing it back and lightly scratching his scalp before taking a handful of his raven glory, covering his the back of his hand like spilled ink. Aymeric’s lips parted on a gasp as his grip there tightened.

He was fully hard, arching toward his belly and leaving a tacky line of pre stretched between the skin to the side of his navel and the head of his cock where it peeked out of the sheath of skin. His fingers, now getting greedy, curled around his shaft, sliding back and forth. His breath left him in a soft and drawn out “oh” as he pressed his thumb just beneath the crown, slipping it back and forth against the ridge there.

A quick blind rummage in his bedside drawer with his free hand yielded a small toy shaped like a curled rosebud with a flat flared base and a loop, rendered in some unknown metal, bluish in color — ancient technology, Estinien had said before swiftly putting it to use and making Aymeric’s mind feel as if it were going to leak out of his ears — was set on the bed next to him to await its turn in the proceedings.

A long, slow, wet lick along his palm and fingers, and his hand was wrapped back around his cock, fingers barely meeting as he circled it.

Aymeric stroked loosely, languidly, teasing himself; he was in no hurry to reach any particular destination, and let his thoughts take him. It was no surprise to him that his lovers featured, warming him on either side, deft fingers finding secret spots to prod and pet and slide along; blunt and calloused and long and satisfying, fingers to hold his body and carry him away from his burdens, deceptively dexterous and eager.

His head tossed to the side, eyes cracking open and staring blankly into the middle distance as he worked himself over, his other hand drifting southward over his abdomen, pressing and feeling, dragging through the trail of hair there. A moment later, his bollocks filled his palm and he groaned deep as he rolled them gently, his hand stuttering over his cock. The other hand slid back up to roll a nipple, causing a low vocalization that he couldn’t stop even if he’d had the mind to.

The slow pace had the embers in his guts fanned and flaming and his hips began to circle. The corded muscles in his long legs tensed and released rhythmically, lifting to meet his hand on the downstroke, his fingers slickened. The slow build was maddening, taking him over and warming him from within. Delicious tremors shot through him like levin bolts when the ring of his fingers caught on the rim of his cockhead. The tremors traveled up his spine and settled at the base of his neck.

He was panting, a thin sheen of perspiration making his fair skin glow in the firelight, when he reached for the toy.


	6. October 6: Sex Toys

October 6: Sex Toys

Aymeric's mind was a hungry, slavering thing, focused only on sating his own lust. The thoughts had become all-encompassing, which was to his immediate benefit. It pushed away all thoughts of pain, of loss, of sadness, of duty. He couldn't show his darker thoughts to many, being in public office as he was. If the prim and proper suitors of the circles in which he dallied during daylight hours could see him, they would brand him a heretic, a lunatic, a depraved beast.

None that he knew of had so far made the connection regarding the reasons he ran with a man, former Azure Dragoon, who was arguably still more than part dragon; and a woman that slayed gods made manifest on the regular. Aymeric surrounded himself with those loyal to him, trustworthy, and arguably more outwardly terrifying than he.

He dearly wished for those loving creatures of his, wanting to be filled by, surrounded by, enveloped and drowned by their flesh, their scent, their savageness. Instead, he reached for the toy he had laid out on the bed beside him, feeling its smooth insistence against his fingertips.

Overtaken by the need to feel it, he ran the smooth surface of the domed rosebud against moistened lips, feeling it slide and leave a chilled trail in its wake. He curled his tongue around it, setting it gently between his teeth as he let himself explore with his mouth. The metal warmed under his ministrations, and he withdrew it, leaving it wet and slick with his saliva. His other hand still slowly worked his cock, thumb sliding through the pre at the tip and making him shiver with every pass.

He shifted downward, canting his hips and pulling a leg up to give himself the easiest access, then brought the toy down. A surprised gasp left his lips despite his readiness when the tip of the rosebud on the toy settled against his hole, still cooler than the seemingly scalding temperature of his core. A frisson of anticipation went through him as the hand on his cock still moved slowly, deliberately. He just let the toy be there, his patience belying his utter need, and breathed.

It was a matter of his body remembering what to do; how to relax and open and accept. If he forced it, he knew, he would have a hard time. His body knew the touch, the method, and would recall the release needed to take the object in.

Slowly, surely, he felt his muscles relaxing, and the toy slipped in just a bit. The slide, the barely-there pressure, his breaths; all served to let himself open. The toy's tip settled at the second ring of muscle inside him; the last barrier to being settled.

He pressed the toy in with the barest force, gently but insistently, feeling the resistance of his body fighting back. When he pushed out against the intrusion, bearing down, flexing internal muscles as if to repel it, his body worked in counterpoint to his hand, and the broadest part of the toy breached the final barrier and slid home, nestling the domed tip of itself firmly against his prostate.

His eyes rolled back and his spine snapped up in an arch as his jaw dropped open, slack. The leg he hadn't drawn up against his body began to tremble. The timbre of the drawn out wanton groan he issued was such that it could have reanimated the Knights Twelve, and at least nine of them would be bearing erections when they rose had they been in earshot.

The effect was instantaneous -- he reflexively clenched down against it, the base of the toy leaving his fingers as his body pulled it deeper, the curve ensuring that it butted up to the front of his passage and redirected the sum of the pressure applied to it directly against his prostate.

Aymeric groaned and circled his fingers around the base of his bollocks, cinching them gently to stave off further spasms just yet. He knew from experience that if he allowed himself to, just the flexing of his hips would shift the toy back and forth within him and have him spent in a matter of minutes.

That would be his goal for his second peak -- this first one, he would make last.


	7. October 7: Marking/Biting

October 7: Marking/Biting

Aymeric had not another ilm to give to Haurchefant as he drew back and slammed forward, making the other man groan. The shirt he had worn was lifted over his head and set to rest behind him, catching his elbows when Aymeric bunched the fabric and used it as a hand-hold in the middle of Haurchefant's broad back.

Full nude himself, Aymeric had only half-stripped Haurchefant, his trousers still binding him at the knee. Upon his arrival to Borel Manor, he was hauled upstairs to Aymeric's room, his lair, his sanctuary, before being unceremoniously partially divested of his clothing then thrown down onto the bed. Once Aymeric got the access he required, he slathered his own cock with slick from a pot on the bedside table, lifted trim hips to pull his lover level, and wormed his way inside the other man without so much as a by-your-leave.

"My word, darling," Haurchefant breathed into the bed sheets when he could again speak through the sensation of being thoroughly pierced, turning his head and resting his weight on his upper chest. "I know precisely what lovely bit has gotten -- aah! -- into me, but what has gotten into you?" The question was punctuated by a drawn out moan as the thick head of Aymeric's cock dragged heavily against his sweet spot, making him see stars behind his eyelids.

This beautiful, stealthy, undeniable dragon of a man had a distinct and way of knocking him arse over teakettle, despite years of shared history.

"You've been with her," Aymeric said, his voice a growl. The points of his hipbones were going to leave such glorious bruises on his hips and ass, Haurchefant thought. Each barely measured slam shot levin up his spine and made his eyes roll. He pushed back as best he could to meet each delicious thrust, working a hand underneath himself to grope at his own hardness awkwardly.

"Of course I've been with her," Haurchefant responded, breathy, panting, overwhelmed. "We've-- _gods and hells, Aymeric, again!_ We've discussed this this before."

"You're mine," he hissed, and Haurchefant knew that he'd done the right thing by issuing Cen a summons under pretense. This would be resolved.

"Of course -- _aah!_ \-- of course I am, love. Just as you're mine." Another deep slam. "And just as you're Estinien's." He waited for that to sink in to Aymeric's dominant hind brain. "And just as I am Estinien's." The tremble in Aymeric's hips was evident now as he draped himself over Haurchefant's back, holding him bound with his weight against the bed and rutting now, grinding and pressing and gripping and driving them both to the edge.

Not only would his ass be bruised, but he would bear Aymeric's fingertips bruised into the meat of his upper arms. Aymeric's chest slid against him, slipping with their combined exertions

"I am hers like I am yours," Haurchefant managed, short of breath as his orgasm took the last words from him and he whited out, every muscle clenching.

Pained little cries whispering past his ear in time with the slick burning pressure in ass brought him back to himself. He smiled, soft and fond. "Oh, Aymeric, you should see her as I see her. We are already glorious together, love -- you and I and our wayward dragoon. We could be _incandescent_." He breathed out on a shudder as Aymeric's grip tightened. He was at his precipice.

"Haurchefant," Aymeric whined, sounding panicked, begging, pressing in hard and fast and uncontrolled.

"She is what we are missing, love. But no matter what, I will keep you. Because you, my friend, my love, my brother... You, Aymeric de Borel, are _mine_ ," he snarled, just as possessive as Aymeric had been.

Aymeric came with a roar muffled into Haurchefant's shoulder as he sank his too-sharp teeth deep, his eyes wide and blown and unseeing.


	8. October 8: Bondage/Sensory Deprivation

October 8: Bondage/Sensory Deprivation

Aymeric's loud cries were muffled and desperate as Estinien drove into him from behind. The ropes he was bound with and hung by dug into his flesh softly as he was railed mercilessly -- they would imprint marks, but they would not burn him. He'd been here for what felt like bells by this point, soft silken ropes intricately twined around him, cinching his arms at his back so he was grasping only his own elbows. The ropes were braided around his torso to leave his chest accessible yet supported, crossing under the pectorals to push them up with every breath.

Thick bands wound around the widest part of his thighs, keeping him aloft, the very tips of his toes on one foot brushing the floor in his room. The other leg was bound differently, held crooked and aloft, tightly strapped beneath the swell of his buttocks. When he shifted his weight, he set himself to spin gently if his lovers' hands were not upon him. He was rarely spinning.

The only senses he still had about him were scent and touch. His eyes were sightless behind a plush black fabric, and his mouth occupied with a gag which pressed down on his tongue. Aymeric's ears were rendered deaf by a muffling spell affixed to a set of earrings, courtesy of Cen.

His cock, though -- oh, his cock. The beast was bound as well, a ring of an odd metal which managed to be soft and hard at the same time was securely seated at its thick root. A nodule of some devious design and nestled behind his balls pressed deliciously into his perineum, working his prostate from without and sending him into a froth with each jostle and slam of hips and foray of thick shaft into his pliant body.

Delicate fingers brushed across his cheek, drifting back into his sweat-damp hair as he panted past the gag, drawing his air sharply through his nose. Cen. The scent of lilacs and ozone static that followed her was heady, especially mixed with sex as it was.

He'd come in from his station some hours earlier to find Estinien in residence, relaxing in the foyer with Cen, a pot of hot chocolate steaming between them, looking at a drawing that had made him raise an eyebrow. Estinien, during his time in the Far East, had learned about the art of ropework and suspension. His dark eyes fair smouldered when he looked up at the Lord Commander.

When Haurchefant walked in, his entire night had gone to hell. In the best possible way.

If anyone needed to be utterly wrecked, pampered, taken care of, they declared, it was him. Haurchefant's voice, pitched low, was the last thing he heard as Estinien and Cen worked together to finish the work of art binding and showing him off.

"Aymeric, you're beautiful like this, you know. Well, you're always beautiful, but this presentation is heavenly -- the image of your pale flesh bound in black silk rope will haunt me. You look like a dream." Haurchefant's long, sturdy fingers were slowly toying with his shaft, petting the heavy balls below it. "You won't regret this, love. We're going to take such good care of you," he husked.

Then the ring slipped over the head of his cock and he gasped. A sensation he could scarce describe took him as the contraption began to come to life. It felt as if someone was slowly, intermittently, trilling their tongue against his flesh -- swift and firm little punches like the gentle tap of fingers interspersed with a buzzing electric sensation that lacked the snap of static.

The blindfold came next, then the earrings. Trussed and hung and helpless, he found himself eager and anticipating the random touches he was bequeathed.

When long fingers breached him from such an angle that it could not only be one person, he was sure he let out the longest, loudest moan because the fingers paused, trembled, then pressed on. He was opened, toyed with for ages, then taken roughly.

But then the oddest thing happened. The orgasm he felt building at the base of his spine, beginning to arc and sputter along his nerves, was suddenly gone. The drop left him shivering and writhing, chasing what was no longer there. The cock that had begun him, Estinien's, was shoved deep, fast, and held there as his lover spent himself inside.

Then the build happened again, bringing him to the edge of his peak as clever fingers wrung his cock through the pulsating sensations of the ring and pressed into his used hole deliciously, playing with the puffy rim of him. Aymeric's chest heaved as he approached, beginning to stutter when he felt a fourth small finger join the others and a thumb begin to tease. Knuckles ground into his prostate and he began to come -- only to have it snatched away again unceremoniously while the pressure was maintained.

He began to writhe, now beginning to understand the ring's true purpose.

Haurchefant's wide cock took the place of the fingers and his torment continued. He had nothing to focus on, nothing to distract him from the feeling of being so utterly under his lover's control. Time began not to matter as he felt his pleasure cresting again and being snatched away from him, only to begin its meteoric rise once more. Twice more. A dozen times more.

Hands and cocks and lips and fingers kissed and stroked and teased and pinched, sliding along the ropes that held him as they rotated in and out, one taking the place of the other as they finished over and over inside him, petting him, tormenting him, making love to him.

It was with Haurchefant buried deep and perfect, thrumming inside his wrecked body, slick with sweat and come dripping down his pale thighs and over pitch silken ropes that he heard a voice from a thousand malms away.

"You've lost all your words, love." It was Cennova, accompanied by gentle hands against his overheated face and a soft kiss pressed to his forehead. "You've been so good for us, so perfect and trusting. So generous. The little device you're wearing doesn't steal your orgasms. It just hangs onto them for you until we make it give them all back. One after another after another," she breathed, and he felt her breath float past his ear, then her tongue along the lobe.

He felt Estinien holding him, supporting him from the side, his strong arms coming around.

"Ready?" she asked. He thought he managed a nod. A snap of something -- not aether, but _power_ nonetheless, and the device that held his root dropped away.

For a moment, he felt nothing. Then a feeling welled like he had never known, swiftly, inexorably. A cry he could not hear tore from his throat and his blinded eyes saw god.

Aymeric convulsed against the ropes and lovers that held him firm, Haurchefant still behind him, his face a moue of concentration as he gently worked Aymeric through the rising waves of the tide, grounding him as overwhelming frissons of pleasure washed through.

It went on and on, each rolling peak feeding into another leaving him a trembling and empty mess as he finally fell slack against his bindings, shivering and bearing the smallest of smiles on his lips as he laughed weakly.

His lovers supported him as they released his bindings, cleverly built so as to be removed more quickly than they were applied. His legs would not support him, and he found himself gently manhandled and carried to the waiting bed.

Aymeric drifted for a time, lost to sensation and care as hands touched softly, caressed, and cleaned. So wrung out was he that he did not immediately notice that he could hear voices once more over the rush of blood in his ears and the slight ache in his jaw from biting the gag.

The blindfold remained, though loosely. When he reached up for it at last, it took him a moment to focus as it was slowly lifted from him.

The light in the room was low, coming from a low-banked fire burning in the hearth. Cen and Estinien bustled about, setting things back to rights while Haurchefant held Aymeric in his arms on the bed, both of them comfortably nude. His fingers drifted across Aymeric's forehead, pushing the fringe away from his eyes, rendered soft, pupils still blown in the aftermath.

Haurchefant's hand slid down his side, stroking him softly while he took his time regaining himself, offering Aymeric a soft smile when the others finally joined them in the wide bed, bracketing each other and twining limbs together under sheets and blankets.

Soft breaths shared, the crackle of the fireplace, and the shirr of skin sliding against skin were the only sounds left in the room.


End file.
